law since their midteens. As Archer read down the list of crimes committed by them, one caught his attention.
Peeping Tom.
Each of the three men had been shot, their bodies left where they fell. The sidearm used was Carson’s police-issued one. There had been no trial, what with the man’s confession, and no deal worked to avoid the death penalty for that confession. And Archer wondered why.
He heard footsteps coming and he hastily slid the book back under the pillow exactly as it had been before and stepped over to the door.
A few seconds later she appeared in the doorway. “Here it is, Mr. Archer.”
He took the screwdriver from her. “I’m gonna loosen the screws first. When I say so, if you can, just pull up on the edge of the door. Use the knob to grip.”
She did so when he told her to, and he tightened the upper hinges. Then he got down on his knees and partially unscrewed the ones there.
“Just pull up as much as you can now.”
Crabtree let go of the doorknob, lifted her arms high, and gripped the upper edge of the door and pushed toward the ceiling, which raised the lower right edge of the door about a half inch.
“Just a little higher now. The holes are almost lined up where I need them to be.”
She went up on her tippy-toes and stretched out even more.
“Okay, hold it right there.”
He glanced over and saw that, with her efforts, the woman’s dress had ridden up some. And with him where he was, he had a clear sightline up her dress, revealing her stocking tops and pale thighs above them. He quickly looked away, feeling embarrassed for her. And maybe for himself, too. That was a new one for Archer.
My mother always said I would grow up at some point. And maybe Poca City’s the place.
“Okay, that should do it.” He got up off the floor. “Try it now.”
She did so, and the door swung freely. She smiled. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Archer. Thank you.”
“And don’t forget to lock it now. And you may want to sleep with that gun under your pillow, too.”
They went back into the other room, and Archer spotted a bottle and two glasses on a bureau. He picked up the bottle. “Rebel Yell. I hear they make it from wheat, not rye.”
“You’re not supposed to drink alcohol, Mr. Archer.”
“Oh, I know that. Number 14 on the list. I was just wondering. A man does get thirsty here. With all the dang dust.”
“Well, you did fix my door, and I guess one nip won’t hurt.”
She poured out two small portions, and they clinked glasses.
“I’m growing to like this town,” he said, taking a sip.
“Why’s that?”
“You have good people, for one thing. Like yourself. Trying to help others, like me.”
She smiled and nodded. “You seem to have come a long way since our first meeting.”
“So what does the J stand for?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ernestine J. Crabtree. It’s on your office door. What’s the J stand for?”
“Oh, um, Jewell. It was my mother’s first name.”
“Well, it’s a pretty name.”
“Yes…”
He finished his nip. “Well, I better get on.”
“Thank you for a nice evening, Mr. Archer.”
He tipped his hat. “My pleasure, Miss Crabtree.”
Archer headed back to the hotel, where he ran straight into Detective Irving Shaw.
Chapter 20
IRVING SHAW WAS LEANING BACK on the front desk in the lobby, staring out toward the main entrance doors, his hat tipped back. His thumbs were tucked into the pockets of his vest. He had an unlit, short-barreled cigar dangling from a corner of his mouth while the rest of his face held a self-satisfied look.
He smiled broadly when he saw Archer walk in. “Just the man I want to see.”
Archer came toward him and looked for but did not see the clerk. “Is that right? You’re working late hours.”
“Hunting a killer ain’t a nine-to-five job. Now, I spoke with Miss Tuttle.”
“Good for you. And?”
“And she told me some things that I wanted to check out with you.”
“Okay. You want to ask me down here or up in my room?”
“Why don’t we do it in the room where Hank Pittleman was found dead?”
This surprised Archer, but he followed the man to the elevator. “I’ll take the stairs, if you don’t mind.”
Shaw chuckled. “Seen that before with ex-cons. Small, confined spaces don’t feel all that good, do they?”
“No, they don’t.”
“I’ll meet you upstairs. And Archer?”
“Yeah?”
Shaw opened his jacket to show a big-butted Smith & Wesson .45 with iron sights carried in a worn